Page 8 of Betting Blind
Ben is nowhere to be seen, and my blood boils at his constant absence. Go figure, he’s left me high and dryagain. A muscle in my jaw tics slightly, and when I hear Derrick come through the back, huffing and grunting with supplies, I ignore him for a few minutes so I can stew in my anger. I’m such an asshole for not helping him, but he gets it—and he’ll forgive me. Truthfully, if it weren’t for D, I’d be a ticking time bomb most days.
The only time I’m truly content is when I’m behind the bar.
I shift my focus to the long wooden bartop that encompasses a floor-to-ceiling back bar that I keep generously stocked. That’s where I thrive. Leading these guys and running shit is what comes easy to me, and I will die a happy man doing exactly what I love.
Micah saunters back and forth fulfilling orders, and I nudge myself free from the wall and away from my hiding place. After stepping through the entrance where the broad, dark-skinned man is serving, I grab my old friend Jack Daniel’s and open my mouth wide to pour myself a shot.I am the owner, after all.I wink at a big-breasted woman, who fans herself as she watches me guzzling the amber liquid.
I can hardly contain the smile that curves both corners of my mouth. “Jack, Jack, Jack,” the men and women surrounding the bar shout, and adrenaline hijacks the alcohol for a ride straight to the organ pumping it all through my body. Here, I’m the king, and this is my kingdom. I palm the bottle by its neck and jump up onto the bar, turning toward my subjects.
Let the show begin.
Chapter 5
Cassidy
The aroma of breakfast sausage and eggs fills our small house, and the tendrils of smoke coming from the pans beckon me with a crooked finger. “Ow! Son of a bitch,” I whisper when a drop of grease lands on my forearm. Hoping that Momma didn’t hear me, I cringe and pop one eye open toward the opening of the kitchen to our main living area, but no such luck.
“I heard that,” her melodic voice calls from the living room. I swipe the spot off my arm with my bright pink apron as my gaze finds the rustic chicken calendar hanging on the wall. The sickness of anxiety pools low in my belly, stealing my appetite for breakfast like a thief in the night.
Waiting for Friday has made this week the longest of my entire life, and now that the day is finally here, the urge to vomit is incessant. Thankfully, Jules is off today, and she agreed to drive me in for my mid-shift at the diner. She’s been pestering me mercilessly with questions about my decision to accept the position Jack offered me at that grunge-hole this town calls a bar. I bargained that if she would drive me to The Pound after my shift, I’d fill her in on all the details.
The biggest hurdle to this whole situation—aside from lacking transportation—was telling my mom. She worries about me enough as is it, so I found it in her best interest to skirt around the truth. The trouble with that is, I’m a terrible liar. Which led to the half-truth I gave her, involving an explanation that I accepted a temporary weekend job to help pay for the car repairs. I just omitted the fact that this job happened to be at a biker bar on the other side of town with questionable patrons and some pretty sexy bartenders.
Our rotund black beast barks, drawing my attention away from the calendar, and I lean down to plop a greasy sausage patty into his bowl. “You’re a glutton, Gordy.”
He slops down his snack in two seconds flat and sits with his big fat tongue hanging out of his mouth. He knows I’d do almost anything for those sweet, begging eyes.
Laughing at my goofy companion, I gather various plates of food and perform a balancing act with the bounty on my way to the living room. Mom is up doing some physical therapy that she learned from a website I found for her, and I stop in my pursuit to marvel at her strength. I’m perfectly content moving her around and helping her in any way I can, but over the years, she’s expressed how important it is for her to have some sense of independence.
Years ago, we decided to install several long wooden bars into the walls around the living area and kitchen. They’re similar to those that ballet studios have, and they allow her the freedom of having something to hold on to should she want to move herself around without assistance.
It stresses me to no end to watch her drag herself along those bars with her right foot trailing lamely behind her and her right arm hanging limp. But it didn’t take long to learn that I should let her be when she gets in a stubborn or determined mood. My mother has never been one to roll over and give life her belly—and for that, I admire her.
“You keep staring like that and I’m going to make you come over here and stretch with me.”
I place our plates of food on the TV trays that have made their permanent homes in front of our opposite recliners. “Ha ha,” I tease. “Come eat.”
“My goodness, you are bossy!”
I shake my head when she winks at me and move to help support her bad side as we walk to her recliner. My unease about meeting with Jack this evening forms a bottomless pit in my stomach, and it shows in the way I mindlessly scarf down my food.
Gordy barks his approval of my eating habits from beside my chair, and Mom’s green eyes bulge slightly. “Jesus, Cassidy.”
A nervous laugh finds its way around the bite in my mouth. “Guess I’ve got a little touch of the jitters for this new position I’m taking.”Jitters. Now that’s an understatement.
She waves her left hand through the air dismissively as I swipe my sweaty palms against my thighs. “It’s just a bakery, honey. Don’t be so dramatic.”
I almost laugh out loud but somehow manage to contain it. I had to come up with a job that was practical, yet believable, since I knew I’d be required to work late hours. At the time that I broke the news to her, the best I could come up with was that one of the bakeries on the outside of town needed a late-night cake decorator.
Cake Boss, here I come.
Standing, I dust a few stray crumbs off my uniform and kiss her cheek. “I love you,” I tell her, looking straight into a face that mirrors mine. We could pass as sisters if it weren’t for her deep-set laugh lines and lightly scattered wrinkles. I don’t allow my eyes to slide to the scars across her right temple and jaw because I know she doesn’t want or need the pity that sometimes creeps into my gaze.
“I love you too, sweet pea. Oh, bring me home some cupcakes!” she says, bouncing slightly, and Gordy barks to confirm he’d like some, too.
“Sure thing,” I lie with a tight, awkward smile as I list the various bakeries around town in my mind. I may have hit a tiny roadblock with my second job.
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